Thief in the Garden
by lordsofandunie
Summary: A year after Sauron's defeat Éomer King meets the Princess of Dol Amroth on a sunny March morning, in a garden by the sea.


_March, 3020 T.A_

Éomer knew all there was to know about great green pastures, rolling hills and rugged tundra plains, but little of white rock cliffs, beaches of white-gold sands or blue-green waves and ocean tides. The strange salt air disturbed him above all things, it's source blindingly visible from the highest point of Dol Amroth where the Prince of Dor-en-Ernil had his house. The sun was high in the sky and it gleamed off the foam capped waves, making it unbearable for him to look at it for very long - his first true glimpse of the ocean. Already he felt the urge to be free of the the strange sounds of waves crashing ashore and the cry of the gulls.

He continued through the greetings that met him at Imrahil's doorstep with calm politeness, though inside his mind was far, far away.

Once fully welcomed by what seemed like a representative from every landowning family in the province, the king and his men retired to their chambers, wearied and disorientated. Many had only heard rumour of the ocean, and having never dreamt to see it were more than a little in need of some recovery time. Éowyn seemed to him the only one content with all she saw, which he supposed was the most important thing.

"Lord Imrahil said he had word from Faramir. They expect to arrive sometime before nightfall," His sister said idly, eyes sweeping his rooms as they must have done her own, "If I am not about when they arrive do wake me,"

He strongly suspected that Éowyn would not sleep a wink until the Prince of Ithilien arrived, as all she did these days was write letters to her soon-to-be betrothed, but he nodded his head nonetheless.

After a long silence she then added, "if you can not find rest in sleep I hear you ought to take a turn about the gardens, they are famed for their beauty,"

Éomer did not have high expectations for a garden in Gondor, no matter how far South it was or how well maintained it was said to be. Minas Tirith had been a city of stone where few living things lived or grew before the new King Elessar called upon his friends across the free peoples of Middle Earth to bring life to it again. Without such specialised efforts no doubt it would still be as cheerless as ever and what little he had seen of Dol Amroth matched the great city. The white stone they shared had a cool aura that, or at least it seemed to his eyes, turned sunlight grey.

He was, however, very much mistaken.

Terraces beyond terraces stretched out across the hill before him, teaming with life, and as he entered the great green sea he was enveloped by the familiar scent of grass and sunlight. This was not a garden, this was a field. Granted, a field that was full of trees and hedges, rose bushes and herb plants. Furthermore, there was no sound of wind whistling through grass, just the sea and the delicate tinkling sound of far off fountains and ponds. The word garden, however, caused Éomer to think of small sanctuaries of flowerpots such as the gardens of the House of Healing or vegetable patches families would tend to. It implied something small and controlled. This was vast and expansive. A place Éomer could lose himself in. And so he did.

Statues and busts ranged about the place, capturing stills of ancient heroes from the elvish songs Éomer knew of only vaguely and, revered above all, images of the velar evolved into shrine. Before their feet were littered offerings of flowers, berries, lit oil lamps, spices and herbs. He even espied a few scrolls of poetry written by some who thought they might entertain the immortal with their witty lines, but had the decorum not to read them. These all appeared equally well attended to, regardless of how far he ventured into the garden. It was only when Éomer came to a stone wall that he found anything in disrepair.

The wall was covered in ivy and brambles, it's wild appearance in contrast with the rest of the garden. Within it there was one lonely alcove where a bust of Yavanna rested, forgotten and surrounded by her children of the earth. Beside the alcove the wall behind the ivy was discoloured, a faded wood rather than pale stone. With a slight shove it gave way, revealing an orchard through the web of green vines and purple flower-like weeds. Éomer was not certain what sort of curiosity compelled him to enter the orchard, he only thanked Béma for him doing so. If he had not, his fate would have been very different. So, he moved the vines aside with a steady hand under the watchful gaze of a grey dove that sat twittering above the archway.

The trees within yielded fruit strange to Éomer's eyes. No apples were there here, but fruits of bright colours, ranging from deep crimson to bright yellow to lush green. Some were as round as wheels on a cart, others oval and some few closer resembled fat carrots on trees than his idea of what a 'fruit' entailed. Different trees were segregated between tall hedges, which they themselves bore bramble berries and other assorted things, and distributed beside the hedges was the occasional bench, fountain or statue. There was even a small maze, but one grown short, as though once it had been intended for a child's use. Éomer must have walked for half an hour, staring in wonder at what seem to him something closer to the blessed realm than a Gondorian prince's abode, before coming to the opposite edge of the garden. At the southern and eastern end sheer cliffs dropped off into the sea, but before that the trees stopped and a lush lawn began.

Éomer's wanderings had brought him to another section of the house, and to the north side he saw white steps leading up to what he could only assume was part of the Lord's household chambers, for they were grand and far set from the guest's quarters.

For a fleeting moment the young king considered whether or not he was intruding on his host's privacy. It was precisely then that fate chose to intervene, as suddenly there was a cry from behind him, and he turned to the steps once more.

Although they were empty before, the entire building seemingly devoid of life, now there stood a woman. Tall and proud she seemed to him, with a noble face and a storm in her eyes. Thus Éomer-King first saw Lothíriel of Dol Amroth, though he knew her not.

"This garden and orchard are under the care of the lady of the house, it is her will that none enter," The woman said in a voice that made him believe that were she to order the moon to stop waning and the sun to stop setting she would be obeyed.

"But you look not to be the lady of the house, madam," Éomer said, well aware that his host's sister ran the household. He was introduced to her but an hour or two before hand and found her a mature woman made older by grief and sobriety, and this was clearly not her. "Who might you be if none are permitted to be in this place? Are you obeying the will of her ladyship?" He queried.

"Her instructions have brought me here," Her eyes had flashed at his remark, dark eyebrows arching even more, "And it is I that am challenging you," She asserted, chin lifting a little higher.

She seemed to him then a queen in peasants clothes, her simple grey garb doing nothing to hinder her dignity, or perhaps a being far more holy, her presence unable to be contained by mortal form.

"How do you know that it is not the same for I?"

The lady's eyes narrowed, but Éomer espied a flash of teeth also and was not daunted. She took a while to reply, scrutinising every detail of his personage as she prepared her rebuttal.

"Because I have never seen you before and I make a point to know everybody in this house," She told him at last, which only made him wonder even more.

Who was she to recognise members of the household on sight? A high ranking servant, perhaps, with some administrative role. That, however, did not seem at all fitting to him. Her bearing was too noble and too proud to be born of any lesser station than a lady.

"You are clearly one of the arrived Rohirrim," The woman said when he made no response, "but I can not decipher what rank you hold within the company,"

"And you, lady, are clearly a woman of Gondor, but I can not tell what rank you hold within society," He teased, and her other eyebrow joined the other.

Certainly one of Gondor, with hair darker than night and limbs as long as tree boughs, but exceptionally pale, as though starlight was trapped beneath her skin. If this was a feature of the people of Gondor he certainly had never seen such a striking example, or expected someone so pale so far South. Wisened men such as King Elessar would say that she was one that the blood of Númenor flowed true in, alike to Faramir, but Legolas and those of the Eldar would have sensed the hint of elvish fëa that lingered still in the line of the Prince's of Dol Amroth.

"You still have not justified your presence here, explain yourself or I shall call the guards," She said, unamused by his gentle mocking.

"You won't,"

"And why not?"

"If you were going to do so you would not have waited so long, you know I am no danger to you,"

In truth he did not have a clear idea of what a woman would perceive as a threat to her personal safety, but he knew that he would see a plainly dressed man who did not wear a sword or carry a knife as no great peril, especially if he was in his own city, in the comfort of his own home. Surely she did not fear for her wellbeing? Of course, Éomer was beginning to suspect that this woman might go undaunted by most things in the world.

"Though you have not convinced me that you are not a thief, I never pretended you were of any threat," She eventually answered, and the wry manner in which she said it brought a youthful look to her face.

However many minutes into conversing with her and yet Éomer found he could not discern her age. Those grey eyes of hers spoke of an infinite memory, of an old mind and even older soul, but her face remained youthful. Many of her people were alike to her in that regard, not ageing the way one would normally expect. Not that it mattered - what business of his what her age was? It was irrelevant.

"Well then," He finally said, breaking from his thoughts, "Shall my word attesting to my profession as a simple soldier and not a fruit thief aid such matters?"

Simple was an exaggeration and the woman perceived it immediately.

"What reason have I to trust in your word alone, especially now that you have proven yourself a liar, lord?" She said, emphasising the formal address, "Your garb attests to a life more generous than a simple soldier's and I know you to be one of Rohan, therefore you are a high ranking man from the new king's party,"

She was smart, then, but Éomer had already suspected as much, there was a light in her strange eyes that suggested great intellect.

"What if I told you that the men of Rohan do not lie?"

"All men lie, flaxen haired or raven," The lady argued, "Must I ask again what your business here is?"

"In truth I was taking a turn about the gardens and strayed too far. I found an old door hidden by vines, walked through it and now seem to be trespassing on the good Lady Irviniel's property. Will you call the guards?" He queried, feigning an innocence that he could see irritated her.

"No," The woman said, appearing somewhat resigned,"But do not venture far from places you are familiar with, it is easy to get lost in this house,"

"I am dismissed then?"

"Yes, now leave before I change my mind," Her eyes had flashed at his insolence, but he could see she was also suppressing a slight smile.

Faramir arrived with the party from Minas Tirith in the late afternoon, as expected, and a great feast followed, laughter bouncing off the stone walls as candles flickered and music played. Éomer did not think Dol Amroth so different from Rohan at that moment, surrounded by merriment and mirth as he had not been since the end of the war, and was content to see his sister so happy.

The following night would be the official Gondorian betrothal ceremony, even if Éomer had announced it to his own people seven months prior, and many customs and rights were needed to be performed the following day to ensure the couple be blessed. Afterwards, a short stay was needed so that various nobles who could not attend the wedding in Minas Tirith a year from the day might visit and pay their respects to not only the Steward and Prince of Ithilien, but also his future bride and the King of Rohan.

Éomer was only slightly unhappy regarding how Gondor-centric his sister's wedding plans were, though it could not be helped. Gondor was to be his sister's new home and now he was under the roof of the only kin that remained to his future brother, so he had no reason to complain. All he had to do now was to relax and enjoy the feast, not something easily done when he was at the high table and the focus of much attention.

The Lord Imrahil was at the centre of the table, to his right sat Faramir, and beyond him the two eldest princes of Dol Amroth. To Imrahil's left was Éowyn and beside her Éomer sat. It was overall a warm and familial affair, though the young king found conversation stilted to his left, where Imrahil's sister and the lady of the house sat. If she had seemed more open to conversation perhaps he may have mentioned his accidental trespass into her garden, but the Lady Irviniel looked, at least in his eyes, to be one of the most severe persons Éomer had ever come across. She was fair and strong, with a mind of steel, that was obvious, but grief cloaked her person like shadows cloak the night, her hair entirely covered by a veil long and dark and she was garbed in a rich black fabric as though she were in mourning.

"I must thank you for these festivities, my lady, and for you generosity in hosting my people in your halls," He said at last, the first time he had ever addressed her and it was half way through the feast. But, despite how silent he had been previously, Irviniel responded with a pale smile.

"I am afraid you are mistaken, your majesty. I fear my position as lady of the house is quite redundant in this regard, for it is my niece, my lord's daughter, that you are to thank," She dismissed his politeness, lifting her cup in a gesture to a near table.

There sat a woman with skin paler than the sea foam on the surf, and hair darker than the bramble berries climbing up the walls of the garden she haunted, but gone was her messy bun, pale lips and grey dress. The lady before him had lips redder than the morning dawn, hair perfectly styled and coiled into dark glossy curls that fell to her waist, and even if she did not wear the blue hues of her house her mere posture would declare her name and title; Lady Lothíriel, princess of Dol Amroth and daughter of Imrahil of Dor-en-Ernil.

She must have felt his gaze on her, for she turned from her conversation with the man to her right and met his eyes with her own. If she was startled by his identity she kept her dignity and did not show it. Instead she maintained her bold attitude from their previous meeting by not averting her eyes even when he nodded in respect. And then, a great peel of laughter drew her attention away from him and back to her table and Éomer would have sworn he felt a longing for her eyes on him even then.

When she and the youngest of her brothers approached the high table to greet their new sister, as they had taken to calling Éowyn, Lothíriel politely greeted Éomer. She made no allusion to the incident in the garden until a week later when she caught him alone, in a garden he was allowed to be in.


End file.
